


Us Three

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt at humour, Kind of short...but not really?, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, hangovers, implied heavy drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 20:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12801993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: Lestrade is drunk.Drunk and bored.Drunk and bored and feeling very mischievous.Very mischievous indeed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this was written some time ago and left...
> 
> As I am STILL struggling to write solo stories I thought to show you this that I wrote back when I could write (and there are others I might put up in the time to come, both solo and co-authored stories.)  
> It is unfinished and...unless my Muse is cheered up and my motivation and creativity fed, it will stay unfinished. So, for now, it's just a 'short.'
> 
> Please enjoy!  
> I had fun writing this back in 2016. It was the first time I had tried these three men in something together.

Greg looked at John over the lip of his pint glass and snorted, licking foam from his mouth. John was talking about Sherlock. Again. His attention completely caught up in another overly slurred attempt at explaining away the most recent case, gushing over the details of Sherlock’s little quirks and social cues. It wasn’t the first time that John had spoken, nonstop, about Sherlock, and it wouldn’t be the last. John barely had anything else going on, anything else he’d rather talk about. Normally Greg would let it go and listen politely, hming and ahing in the right places, offering faces of encouragement and entertainment, but tonight Greg was drunk and rude, and Sherlock was there with them instead of shut away at the flat. And wasn’t that interesting?

So he lazily glanced around for the detective as John stopped his chattering and gesturing long enough to take another sip of his poison of choice, wavering on his chair as he knocked it back. An idea was forming in Greg’s head. It wasn’t exactly a great idea, but it would be fun. God, would it be fun. He hadn’t had fun in ages. Years.

He found Sherlock quicker than he expected to. What with the pub they had chosen practically overflowing with laughing, red faced drunkards stumbling in and around the cramped area full of tables, chairs, stools and wetly glinting beer glasses, he had expected to lose sight of anyone who happened to stand up. He watched the curly haired man stumbling into the toilets, still in his damn coat, and felt the idea twist into an amusing and devilish plan of action.

“Go kiss him,” Greg said bluntly over the racket of the laughter and off-key songs that surrounded him, and grinned broadly at John’s wide-eyed expression and instant confusion. No wonder the arrogant sleuth liked having him around, that expression was adorable. “Sherlock. Kiss him. You’re clearly madly in love with the bloke. It’s, as Sherlock always says, ‘ _obvious_.’ So go kiss him. Show him how much you want him. Because he certainly ain’t seeing it -- God knows why…”

With a snorting sort of laugh, John shook his head, “I’m not in love with him,” he said in reply, frowning, the entire movement of his eyebrows comically exaggerated.

“Yes you are. Course you are. _Evidently_ you are—All right then,” Greg tried a different tactic, his grin widening as he jerked a thumb toward the men’s toilets. “I _dare_ _you_ to kiss him.”

John followed the motion, gaze sluggishly centring on the loo door, “Dare me?”

“ _Dare_ you.” Greg leaned over to him. “You never back out of a dare, do you mate? Hm? – Go on! Do it. It’ll be a laugh. You’ll surprise him. Confuse him. It would be funny. Don’t you think it would be funny? And to shock Sherlock Holmes is a lovely treat, wouldn’t you say?”

“He’s hardly ever shocked.” John blinked listlessly back at Greg, stared at him without speaking, without moving, without focusing, and then took another mouthful of lager, slamming his glass down in acceptance. “Fine. I will!”

Greg laughed heartily and thumped his own drink down, spilling half of the lukewarm liquid over his hand, “Good on you!”

“Yeah,” John nodded and gave Greg a charmingly brazen smile. “I’m going to kiss him.”

“Do it!”

“Right now.”

“ _Yes_.”

“He won’t see it coming!”

“He sure won’t!”

“He’ll not even _guess_!”

“Nope!”

“I’m going to do it!”

Greg, amused but agitated, motioned to the toilets again, steering John toward them when he made no move in that direction, “ _Go on_ then.”

When Greg let him go, John fell clumsily into someone standing at the bar, but thankfully it didn’t deter him, and he walked purposely onward with his chin lifted, arms swinging at his sides, and strides long and strong. For a moment, a mere moment, Greg wondered if John was actually drunk at all. Was he faking? Surely not?

After missing the handle twice and needing to be guided by Greg’s hand, John threw the door wide open against the inside wall with abrupt determination. It startled Sherlock, who was washing his hands at the line of sinks, and he turned to them as John stepped over the threshold without hesitation, making his way inside and barely acknowledging Greg as he skipped up behind John eagerly.

He wanted to see it, wanted to witness it. He made sure that he had a good view of the action and then leaned against the door to keep others out for the time being, hoping it would be sweet but short. Or was that short but sweet?

Sherlock looked spooked and then suspicious at their appearance, but the flush on his face and the unfocused squinting of his eyes gave away how much drink he’d consumed, and so Greg sniggered, over the moon with his luck, with his plan. Sherlock didn’t often drink, and why would he? It dulled the senses, warped the mind, and lowered inhibitions. Bad news for him, brilliant news for Greg.

John took five, wobbly steps toward the detective, grabbed Sherlock’s jacket in a scrambling and tight grip, and yanked him down for a greedy kiss. Sherlock, tensing immediately at the first touch of John’s lager-sticky lips, jerked back, but John followed him, shoving him up against the wall to kiss him again, plastering him to the weird green patterned tiles behind him. It was glorious, gorgeous, an amazing sight to see.

Greg beamed and watched, revelling for a moment in the look of pure surprise in Sherlock’s eyes and the confident surge of John’s mouth until he, himself, was quickly and quite spontaneously, stepping over to push into John’s back to sandwich the doctor and the detective tighter together. In doing so, however, he caused their mouths to detach.

John huffed with a small drunken giggle, smearing saliva and drink down over Sherlock’s chin inelegantly, and glanced back at Greg with an open and incredibly appealing expression. John’s eyes were lidded, his mouth unfurled into a lopsided and attractive grin. God, Greg couldn’t remember seeing John like it before. Never had John looked so carefree and enticing.

Greg couldn’t fight the sudden magnetic pull and nudged their foreheads together on reflex, peering up at Sherlock still pinned to the wall of the gents. Sherlock was wearing an odd look etched onto his face, a look that Greg couldn’t quite place, but one that made something in his gut twist pleasantly, and Greg widened his stance in reaction. The plan had suddenly gotten a whole lot better.

The heat of John’s back, which seeped through to Greg’s stomach and hips, turned Greg suddenly overly playful, and he snorted, reaching to hook at the nape of Sherlock’s neck with one of his alcohol-coated hands, “C’mere,” he mumbled with an expanding smirk, and brought Sherlock down to kiss him himself, dipping his tongue into Sherlock’s plush mouth briefly. “What’s that taste? – What have you been drinking?”

“Shandy,” Sherlock replied a tad breathlessly, looking dazed, “I think.”

“With lemonade?” Greg asked, rolling the flavour around in his mouth and shifting his posture. His attention was flitting between Sherlock’s mouth and the back of John’s neck uncontrollably, unsatisfied with one without the other. The plump curve of Sherlock’s bottom lip and the small, light blond hairs at John’s nape, made something in Lestrade burn with hunger, something promiscuous and eager. When had he felt such a thing before? How long had it been?

Sherlock exhaled shakily, glancing between them, “Yes. I… believe so.”

“You can’t have _only_ had that. You can’t get tipsy on bloody shandy. You must have had something else before that, unless someone’s spiked your drink.”

“…Possibly.”

“Or he’s just that much of a lightweight,” John teased, and turned his head to include Greg in the light-hearted mocking, eyes dark and gleaming with mischievousness, mouth red and shiny from kissing. He looked positively delectable.

At the look, at the thought, Greg felt a stab of arousal so sharp that he didn’t realise he was bumping inelegantly forward for a kiss until John had hummed a hot breath against his face and curled one strong hand around Greg’s head. John tasted of lager and salt & vinegar crisps, and despite his obvious intoxication his technique oozed with confidence and experience. His hand and mouth skilfully explored places Greg didn’t know he even liked, and he moaned as John then sucked on his tongue, falling uncharacteristically weak at the knees. John’s humid and husky grunt in reply was almost enough to send him to the floor. Why hadn’t they done this before?

Clearly thinking them distracted with each other, Sherlock tried to quietly and slowly slip away, seizing the moment. Something he would have gotten away with on any other day. Except now Greg was brimming with lust and eagerness for the both of them, and threw out an arm, blocking Sherlock’s exit with a cunning sideways glance. He basked in the twitch of shock from the otherwise crafty detective while John, without taking his lidded eyes away from Greg’s face, reached out to push his free hand up Sherlock’s chest, a chest which heaved beneath John’s tanned and thick fingers. Christ that man’s fingers were good, weren’t they? Just bloody brilliant.

Sherlock was overwhelmed and confused, his pupils dilated, and he stumbled back when John friskily nudged him into the tiled wall with a hint of excitement, taking again by surprise when John then took a firm clasp of Sherlock’s collar and yanked him forward once more. The instant Sherlock’s nose brushed Greg’s cheek, Greg was kissing him without thought or question, and only paused on a shudder of desire as, a second later, John bullied his way into their moist pressing of lips and tongue to join in Greg’s exploration of Sherlock’s mouth with a brash smile and red cheeks.

The taste of them all together made Greg’s head spin and he had to pull back, lightheaded, “Mm. _Christ_. Look at his pretty little pouty mouth,” he heard himself growl mindlessly, and cradled Sherlock’s chin in one shaking hand, “God. I’ve always just wanted to… _bite_ it. You know? Until it bleeds. Just…just _bite_ and _suck_ the _fuck_ out of it.”

“Yeah,” John rumbled in agreement, his back still cosily slotted to Greg’s front.

Sherlock swallowed and Greg watched his Adam’s apple bob, “…What?”

“They sort of look kind of…girly. Wouldn’t you say?” Greg murmured.

John giggled lowly in amusement, “Definitely.”

“ _Girly_?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a mouth on a bloke before.”

John nodded and hummed, “Yeah. He’s got a weird face. Can’t look away from it.”

“You both do realise I’m standing _right_ here, don’t you?” Sherlock huffed.

“And don’t even get me started on his arse,” Greg continued, focus shifting down Sherlock’s body suggestively. Sherlock look down at himself in a self-conscious and defensive way, and Greg smirked, thrilling at such a sight for unknown reasons.

“I know. It’s pos-positively _sinful_ ,” John husked, rubbing his temple against Greg’s own and entwining their short hair. Greg shuffled further against him, resting his chin on John’s shoulder, and wondered briefly if he’d always been meant to press and lean and be against him.

Sherlock frowned at them both, mouth exceedingly plump and wet with saliva, “What? Why?—What is _happening_?”

Reaching toward Sherlock with a burst of laughter, Greg cupped Sherlock’s backside and squeezed, hard and fervent. Sherlock’s buttock was pert and firm and hot under his hand, and it tensed as Sherlock arched up onto his toes with a high-pitched, unmanly, squealing hiss. God and wasn’t that a wonderful thing?

Greg reaffirmed his grip and squeezed again, basking in the sensation of it in his hand before he spanked Sherlock, sharp and short and without warning. It shouldn’t have been surprising when Sherlock inhaled a hitching breath in reaction, fidgeting against the wall and rumbling low in his chest, but it still made Greg pause in delight nonetheless. He’d always been looking for a spanking that man had, hadn’t he? Obviously he had. What a lovely, fascinating, and beautiful thought.

He quirked an eyebrow, shared a look with a flushed faced John, and then lowered his hand to stroke the junction between buttock and thigh, lifting Sherlock’s leg up with a gentle tug and balancing it on his forearm. The new position opened Sherlock up to John and so Greg shoved John forward, squishing them all in closer together. Observing as John regarded Sherlock’s twitching expression with an unfocused gaze, silent and passive for a minute, waiting until Sherlock locked gazes with him so he could then crumple up Sherlock’s shirt to expose his flexing, bare abdomen and torso with an excited and lively smile.

Sherlock’s chest was pale and all but hairless, scattered with a few freckles, and seemingly untouched, and Greg groaned with bared teeth as John zeroed in on one of Sherlock’s pale pink nipples, sucking it into his mouth noisily. Licking his lips, Greg fumbled for his phone, giddy at the sight, as Sherlock curled over John’s head with a shocked gasp, going completely red in the face and clutching at John’s arm. John moaned gruffly in response and flicked the tip of his tongue over the pebbling nub, kissing it. After a second, during which it seemed like time itself had paused, John peeked at Greg from under his lashes and very gently bit down.

“Oh fuck,” Greg heard himself husk, lifting his mobile in one shaky hand.

However, even overcome with blatant desire Sherlock was perceptive enough to notice Greg’s movements, and knocked the phone aside before the moment could be captured. Greg huffed, hauling Sherlock in for a messy and impatient kiss instead, and then cupped the back of John’s head as John relocated his mouth to Sherlock’s strained neck, lathering the skin there with attention, and enjoying the way Sherlock squirmed against him.

The movement and heat of them all fixed together, connected through touch and taste, was addicting and consuming. It unlocked and opened something inside of Greg that bled pleasure and warmth throughout his limbs, which coiled around his restlessly beating heart. It was something he knew he’d not likely to forget. How could he? How could anyone forget this? Greg quivered at the exact moment Sherlock himself shook with a wheezing grunt as if he felt the same, flooding Greg’s mouth with a sultry breath and giving a stuttered thrust of his hips. It had a pleasing domino effect and Greg moaned as John was rocked back into him because of it, drowning in longing while Sherlock finally, finally, reached forward to cling to both Greg and John with long, enthusiastic fingers, fully surrendering to them both.

Unfortunately, before Greg could fully appreciate the moment, it was ruined a second later as the door to the toilets opened with a bang behind them. It caused them all to jump apart, flustered and snorting with nervous laughter. The man that had entered thankfully paid them little attention, almost falling into a urinal as he drunkenly stumbled for it, and Greg took that as a cue for them to leave, motioning for them all to do so.

John was the first of them to step out, confident and cocky as he swaggered away, and Greg trailed after with a soft smile, beckoning to a rumpled looking Sherlock, urging him to follow. Sherlock’s hair was mussed, his shirt crinkled, and his lips and the skin of his neck rosy, and it made his nonchalant walk from the wall ludicrously enjoyable to watch. Greg wished he’d been quick enough, steady enough and sober enough to capture it on video.

Chuckling he snagged for Sherlock’s sleeve instead, then encircled the man’s warm and trim wrist, leading him away in an almost possessive manner. It was good. It was so good to have his hold of him. It had been so good with the both of them. So good that he didn’t want it to end. In fact, it couldn’t end, he wouldn’t allow it, not when they were both incredibly receptive and willing. So with a churning of heat low in his pelvis and another idea forming in his mind, Greg glanced from Sherlock to John as he stepped out into the hustle and bustle of the pub again. He grinned suggestively at them both, catching John’s eye as he went for his coat. The game was on.


	2. Chapter 2

The headache was what woke him first and Greg grumbled, fumbling with the twisted sheets of his bed to cover his head. It seemed he hadn’t shut the curtains last night and the sun streamed in through the window with harsh, sharp lines, burning the backs of Greg’s eyes. He had a hangover. A bad one. Why had he even drank so much? How had he let it happen? He wasn’t twenty anymore, he couldn’t bounce back as quickly as he once had done. Why did he do it to himself?

Greg whinged low in his throat and scrubbed at his face, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and fumbling to his feet. He couldn’t remember anything from the night before, his memories foggy and twisted and warped from drink, and Greg grimaced and scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He hated that most of all. Not knowing. Not remembering. God that was bad, wasn’t it? When the blankets fell from him Greg’s thoughts and movements stuttered to a stop and he looked down at his naked body with bemusement, ruffling his hair as he yawned and walked to the bathroom. He hadn’t gone to bed naked for years.

Pulling a face of disgust at his own haggard reflection, Greg went the toilet, washed his hands and face, and then padded back into his room. Clothes were strewn in the hallway and all over his bedroom floor, and Greg kicked them aside, annoyed at himself but too lazy and grumpy to do anything about the mess. Some of the clothes looked strange and unfamiliar, and Greg stared at them with confusion, toeing at a shirt that he could swear didn’t belong to him as he pulled a fresh pair of boxer briefs from a drawer and put them on with a furrowed brow. Had he gone on a drunken shopping spree?

The path of unfamiliar clothes led to his bed and Greg took a few steps over before he noticed, fuzzily, that there was someone else in it, someone with dark curly hair and long, lean, pale legs. At first, Greg thought the hair and legs belonged to some unknown woman that he’d have to awkwardly make coffee for before he asked her to leave, but as his eyes focused, he spotted the very recognisable slope of a high cheekbone, the shape of an ear, and the curve of a masculine jaw, and felt his stomach fall out from under him. Surely not? He took another step closer, leaning one of his knees on the corner of the bed to get a better look and prayed under his breath, hoping that his imagination was running away with him and that he was mistaken. Please God, let him be mistaken.

Sherlock snuffled and turned over to face him, as if it were fated, twisting the covers around his body and unexpectedly revealing John, who was sleeping beside him and had been previously hidden by Sherlock’s lanky, encompassing body and the covers. The doctor’s arm was languidly hanging off over the edge of the bed, his cheeks flushed, body just as nude. All the blood dropped from Greg’s face at the sight of the both of them, slumbering side by side, stripped and tangled in Greg’s messed blankets, and he let out a wheezed and garbled moan of mortification.

“ _Oh my God_ …” Greg mumbled.

John cringed at the noise, stirring, and then at the blinding sunlight hitting his face since Sherlock had shifted, and hurled himself over onto his stomach with a low and vibrating wail of irritation, gathering both the covers and Sherlock’s body up in one go with his face squashed into Sherlock’s nape. Feeling overly shocked and confused, Greg stumbled back from the bed a few paces, and covered his flaming face, unable to fully comprehend what was happening even as he stared at them. Jesus Christ, what had he done? He felt momentarily sick with panic. Not only had he somehow tumbled into bed with two men but they were also two of his close friends and work colleagues. People who he respected, who he cared for. Men he had worked beside and trusted and cared for a great deal.

John moaned sleepily and then jolted up into a befuddled sitting position when Sherlock whinged in response and elbowed him away, “’M up,” he slurred, stunned and half awake, glaring down at Sherlock’s curly head until he felt the obvious first wave of discomfort from his own hangover, and cupped his head. “ _Jesus_ …”

Greg cleared his throat to gain John’s attention, “John …”

“ _Christ_ my head,” John complained, squinting against the light and shielding his eyes.

“ _John_.”

Sherlock groaned in complaint at the commotion, squirming roughly down into the bundle of sheets around him to hide from the sun, and then murmured incoherently under his breath before he lurched up, wrestling with the bed sheets with a worryingly pale face and widening eyes. Greg knew the look well. Very well. Almost too well. He rushed over quickly to yank Sherlock to his feet and into the bathroom, where Sherlock retched and then toppled to his knees in front of the toilet, still somewhat tangled in his nest of covers as he threw up violently into the bowl, Greg’s hand on his back.

“Okay,” Greg muttered with a grimace, looking away and awkwardly patting Sherlock’s hot skin. Very telling marks littered the skin under his hand and Greg lifted a few of his fingers to stare at them, unconsciously mumbling soothing words to Sherlock’s echoing gagging. “Th-that’s it. Just…let it all out. Let it all…out—Fuck me…”

“What ‘appened?” John asked as he stumbled into the doorway, completely naked and half-conscious. From just one quick glance Greg saw that his body was also marked and so had to look again. John was scattered with little bruises, bite-marks and what looked like stubble rash on his jaw, throat, stomach and pelvis. Greg had never seen John look so dishevelled and thoroughly debauched before, and it took a moment for him to notice that John’s face shuttered at Sherlock’s continuous heaving, going as white as a sheet very quickly. Shaking his head in panic as John swallowed thickly, the telltale signs of nausea rising up in John’s expression, Greg looked around his small bathroom in dread.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Greg pleaded gruffly, “please don’t…”

John swayed into the doorframe beside him, shuddered, and then barged through to hunch over the sink to be sick too, gripping the edges until his knuckles whitened. Greg straightened with a deep scowl and fought down his own need to vomit, focusing instead on his own bare feet and not the sound and smell of Sherlock and John emptying their stomachs inches in front of him. Could the day get any worse?

As he tried to control himself he became more aware of the sensation of scratches down his back and the throbbing of bruises at his thighs, neck, and chest. He looked, unable not to, and gaped at what he saw on his body that he hadn’t seen mere moments ago. Weirdly, through his sudden anxiety, Greg was sure he was able to discern who out of the two before him had done what by eyeing the rows of red teeth indents and the overall size of the bruise. He flushed hotly as he inspected a bruise near his left nipple, glancing fleetingly at John’s curved back, and wondered if they’d ever be able to look each other in the face again after this.

Thankfully John didn’t have as much to bring back up as Sherlock seemed to have, and by the time Greg had mindlessly counted the finger bruises on John’s hips, he had already stopped retching and merely stood at the sink, spitting with a grimace and a flush of tightening muscles. Greg wasn’t going to be able to disregard that sight, was he? Great.

Once Sherlock had finally finished, he slumped sideways away from the toilet and looked up at Greg dazedly with a small sneer, “… You could have at least flushed the toilet after you’d peed,” he rasped, dropping the seat lid down loudly in protest. “Heathen.”

“…What? – _Oh_. Sorry,” Greg huffed and shook his head with disbelief, laughing self-consciously. “Um. John? John…do you want to go put something on? I think we all need to…talk? A bit? Maybe? Definitely…”

Sherlock lifted his head woozily and frowned over at his flatmate, “Yes – Why _are_ you naked?”

“What? I-- _Jesus_! I…I don’t—Wait, _you’re_ naked too,” John countered as he covered his genitals with shaking hands and moved away from the sick in the sink. In doing so, and not paying attention to how small Greg’s bathroom really was, he ended up knocking his heels into the bath and falling into it backside first. He winced in humiliation and peered over at Greg with a pursing of his mouth, looking at him accusingly.

“Hey now,” Greg said, lifting his hands in submission while Sherlock glanced down at himself and peeked under the bed sheets with a high arch of both his eyebrows, “don’t go blaming this all on _me_.”

“It was _your_ idea!” John stated irritably and tensed to pick himself out of the bath, before he hesitated, “…Hang on. Have we? Did-did we all…? We didn’t… _did we_?”

“I don’t know – I hope to God that we _didn’t_ , but…” Greg motioned to their bodies with a flapping of his right hand, and scrubbed at the back of his neck with the other. “I think the evidence is quite heavily stacked against us.”

John dropped his head down, “Are you sure we…we didn’t just have a load of women over and they… left? That could have happened, right? _Right_?”

“No,” Sherlock replied with a thick tone, wiping his mouth and then sniffing with a twisting expression, muttering to himself as he rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. “… _Why_ must it come out of my nose as well as my mouth?”

“How do you know there weren’t women?” Greg asked briskly, not wanting to extinguish the flickering of optimism that John had implanted.

Sherlock reached for toilet paper and blew his nose, “Smell for one,” he said, voice muffled by the tissue.

“… _Meaning_?” Greg asked with an angry smile.

“It smells predominately male here,” Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back, arching his neck and displaying the masses off love bites that decorated it. “No lingering scent of perfume of any kind—There’s not even any smudges of lipstick on any of us. Women dress up when they go out. There would be lipstick and perfume and jewellery – They’re _always_ leaving jewellery. And knickers. And bras. Staking a claim. Garnering territory.”

John looked at Sherlock from under his brow, “That’s not true, Sherlock. You can’t just generalise the entire female population! They could have—”

“There would be _something_ left behind,” Sherlock argued, shooting him a weak glare and gesturing with one trembling hand, “There’s _always_ something.”

“How would _you_ know anyway? How’d _you_ know what women leave behind?” Greg snorted cruelly, folding his arms, and then feeling stupid standing in just his pants and covered in bites and scratches. Should have put on trousers or at least a top. “It’s not like _you’ve_ had a one night stand before, have you? – I mean have you even spent _time_ with a woman before at all? _Ever_?”

Sherlock arched one of his eyebrows in challenge, “I pity you, Lestrade.”

“ _Pity_ me?”

“Yes, that’s what I said—”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that then?”

John groaned in aggravation loudly, “ _Enough_! – Just stop. If not for the sake of my head, then for the sake of my sanity.”

“I’m going back to bed,” Sherlock announced flippantly, but when he staggered back to his feet he twitched, inhaled sharply, and turned back to lift the lid of the toilet. He dry heaved for several seconds and then brought up another bout of liquid, bending almost completely into the toilet with a red and veiny throat.

“Or not,” Greg muttered, sharing a quick look with a green looking John. “Not again, not you too?—”

John waved a jittery hand and slumped back down into the bath tiredly, “No. _Nope_. I’m…fine,” he whispered, pressing his mouth together. “Just fine.”

“That makes one of us,” Greg mumbled sarcastically.

 

* * *

Pacing uneasily in front of the bed, Greg tried to think back to the night before, to the pub and the drinks and what happened after, but came up blank each and every time with a flustered raking of his hands through his hair. Sherlock and John were perched back on his bed, with John partly clothed in his trousers and vest and Sherlock still wrapped up in Greg’s bed sheets. They looked as miserable and tired and confused as Greg felt.

Sherlock belched softly and spat into the plastic washbasin clutched in his hands, watching Greg with a fuzzy impatient look on his face and then finally accepting the glass of water that John kept nudging into his bicep. Sherlock’s body was the most covered in marks out of the three of them; love bites, stubble rash, bite-marks, scratches, and finger bruises, littered his neck, uncovered torso and back. Greg tried desperately not to think what his lower regions probably looked like. Tried not to think of them at all, in fact. That way was dangerous territory. He already had John’s body imprinted in the back of his mind; he didn’t need to add to it.

John seemed to be in some state of shock, and was blank faced and stoic, offering Sherlock rolled up wads of tissue paper for him to wipe his mouth and nose onto at random intervals. Always the caring doctor and loyal friend, even in a crisis. God what had they done?

“ _Okay_. Okay…okay,” Greg chanted, cringing as he turned to face them, “Jesus Christ…I can’t believe I’m going to ask this—Are any of you…sore? In…in places you _really_ shouldn’t be sore in?”

“Um. No. No, I’m…I’m not,” John replied with a laden sigh and a look of immense awkwardness. He laced his hands in front of him, and Greg couldn’t help but suddenly admire the steady shift and look of them, staring at the way they interlocked with a flash of splintered imagery in the back of his mind. John’s hands on him. John’s hands on him everywhere.

“Uh. Yeah. Good. Good. Yeah, that’s great.” Greg let out a shaky breath of relief and turned to Sherlock, who was staring into the middle distance, “And you? Sherlock? _Sherlock_!”

“Hm?” Sherlock croaked, focusing on Greg’s face sharply with an over exaggerated smile of politeness.

“Are you sore?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and shrugged one of his shoulders, “Yes. A little. Pulled muscles mostly. Must have been bent the wrong way—”

“ _Oh God_ – No. No,” Greg interrupted with a glower and gestured inanely with a harsh exhale through his nose, “Are you sore…anywhere…anywhere _private_?”

Rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s look of confusion and intolerance, John turned to him and blatantly asked, “Does your anus hurt?”

“ _Ah_. No. No, it’s fine,” Sherlock murmured languidly, and adjusted his grasp on the basin with a pursing of his mouth. He still looked as if he would throw up at any given moment, but his eyes were clearer and he seemed the most relaxed out of all of them.

“Good,” Greg said in reprieve, smiling a little unsurely at John, “That’s…good, right?”

John huffed a short laugh and nodded, seeming exceedingly uncomfortable with everything even as he straightened his back and jutted out his chin with confidence, “I’d say so.”

“My bum does hurt a little,” Sherlock added without looking at the daunting shock rippling over John’s and then Greg’s face. “Stings a bit. Like I’m sitting on a burn or a really infuriating bruise. And it’s hot. Or overly warm. Warmer than the rest of my body – Perhaps its some sort of carpet burn?”

“Right…” John mumbled, rubbing his face before he indicated for Sherlock to lift the sheets around him, “let me…let me see?”

“Do you have to?” Greg complained grouchily.

Sherlock exposed his backside without much embarrassment, keeping his groin covered, and John hissed in sympathy at the bite marks and pinked skin of Sherlock’s right buttock as it was slowly uncovered, glancing cumbersomely at Greg. The biggest bite was puffy and red, taking up space just below the plump curve of Sherlock’s buttock, overlapping where his thigh began, and Greg felt his gut twist, somehow knowing he’d put it there even before he began running his tongue over his teeth to match the swollen spots on Sherlock’s skin. What was with all the biting?

An uneven line of bruises extended up the bow of Sherlock’s spine and around his lean inner thigh, and as Sherlock shifted to display his left buttock as well, John lifted his brow with an awkward cough. Several bruises covered it, one of which was slightly peeking out from the cleft of Sherlock’s backside. They all looked somewhat fresh, meaning they had been done only a few hours prior to Greg waking up. Surely that wasn’t right?

“Do you, um, have anything I can use to sooth the…” John motioned to the red and sore display of Sherlock’s arse and smiled tightly up at Greg, “the area?”

Greg gawked at Sherlock’s bare bottom and back, and shrugged, “I…uh. I might do? I have sudocrem? I think? Will that work? It’s antiseptic cream.”

“Right. Great. Could you go fetch it for me please, and, um, some ice too, if you can?” John asked, tapping Sherlock’s hip and signalling for him to change position and lie across the bed on his stomach. Sherlock glared but moved without verbal objection, spreading out along Greg’s mattress and leaning up on his elbows with the basin positioned between his forearms.

“An ice pack or actual ice?” Greg asked, powerless to stop the sudden admiration at the length of Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock complained throatily and bowed his head over the basin to be sick again, coughing up a mouthful of liquid, “Does it matter?” he groused, fidgeting and moaning in grievance when he hiccupped and dry heaved. “God, how _much_ did I even drink?”

“Apparently, a lot,” John replied and patted Sherlock’s back automatically, rubbing the pads of his fingers and the smooth edge of his nails into the dip of Sherlock’s spine. Greg watched the way John’s fingers moved with reckless interest, the unexpected low buzz of arousal coiling up from his pelvis in hot, whirling tantalising prickles. He was good with his hands. So good. Dear God. “Better take the…the sheet off completely – Here, let me do it. Just stay lying there for a moment.”

“No!” Greg exclaimed, flinching at the volume of his own voice, his headache blooming. “No. Uh, he doesn’t need to take the sheet off does he? I mean it’s just his…arse that’s…like that…and a bit of his back—Okay, _a lot_ of his back—Look, I already had to deal with seeing you naked, John, I can’t deal with seeing Sherlock naked too. There are some things you just can’t unsee.”

“Thanks for that.” John glared half-heartedly at him, still soothing Sherlock subconsciously with dry, calm and steady movements. “Technically, you’ve _already_ seen both of us naked, Inspector.”

Greg winced, “Yeah, but I…I don’t remember that do I? – Oh God. This is so bad. This is the worst fuck up I’ve ever done. And that’s still including the time I tampered with evidence a few years ago.”

“You did _what_?” John gaped, his hand pausing on Sherlock’s back. The contrast between their skin shades was highly stimulating and Greg was suddenly hyperaware of everything that they were doing. As well as what they weren’t. And what he wanted them to do. He was losing his mind.

“Oh, shut up!” Sherlock grumbled, shooting a scowl over his bare shoulder, and in that moment, to Greg’s twisted mind, the expression on Sherlock’s face was suggestive and lust filled, and it only served to heighten Greg’s abrupt aroused state. Had he always looked so sensual?

Sherlock’s gaze dropped suddenly to Greg’s crotch and before he could make a snide comment about the obvious state of Greg’s mounting interest, Greg turned, grabbed some jeans from his wardrobe, and escaped to the kitchen. This was not good. Not good at all. What was wrong with him?

He hopped from one foot to the other as he slipped the jeans on, and threw open his freezer door, rummaging noisily through the frosty drawers to bunch a handful of ice cubes into a tea towel, twisting it off at the end. His body was aflame with want; it felt as though his arousal was the second half of something unfinished, something eager and hot, and he glanced down at the bulging of his underwear with a slow dawning of shame and a twitch in panic. He felt like a teenager again, his body rebelling against his mind, pulling thoughts from the ether. Greg looked behind him, looked at the ice, and then pushed the cold bundle into his crotch with a stifled gasp and a contorted expression, taking the edge off his excitement by huge, painful degrees.

* * *

When Greg wandered to the bathroom with a faint cringe, pulling up his zip, he bumped into John who was holding the now clean and empty plastic basin and the sudocrem, “Oh,” Greg muttered inelegantly, feeling the air crackle between them as they held eye contact. “Found it then?”

“Yeah,” John sighed, eyeing Greg up and then smiling firmly. “Got the ice? Brilliant.”

“Yeah.”

“Great,” John nodded with an awkward and wavering sort of sigh, his pupils shifting as he held Greg’s gaze for another moment. He looked out of sorts and a little nervous, the back of his shoulders highlighted by the sun coming in from the bathroom window behind him, and Greg felt his mouth go dry in precipitous, budding hunger. “You…all right?—Sorry. Stupid thing to ask, all things considered…”

“Yeah,” Greg repeated, holding the bundle of ice up pointlessly and then shifting his stance with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. “Uh. Listen. What do we do now? I mean…this is…this is… _really_ …awkward. More than awkward. I don’t think there’s a word to describe how…awkward this is.”

John looked down at his feet, “We…um, pretend it never happened?” he suggested with a forced light-hearted sort of expression, peering briefly through to Greg’s bedroom where Sherlock was still stretched out with his backside on display and his head in his hands. “I don’t know…this is a first for me. This… _thing_ – Whatever it is – I’m not entirely sure what to do…or _say_ , apparently—I may well be in deep shock. And suffering a very small sexuality crisis too…because… _well_ …”

“I just don’t want this to be, you know, weird – For God’s sake I basically work alongside you two. This is just, just a _nightmare_. What’s that saying? “Don't dip your pen in the company ink.” Yeah. I’ve done that, haven’t I? I mean, you don’t exactly work for me or with me properly, but still,” Greg rambled, just barely stopping himself from pacing in the crapped space between the bathroom and the bedroom. “I’m not…into blokes. At all. Yet...this happened and—”

“Greg, we were _drunk_ ,” John tried to reassure him without looking or sounding reassuring at all. “Things happen – Anyway, I don’t think much did. I mean I don’t think much, you know, _happened_. Between us. All three of us—Oh God…”

Greg arched one eyebrow and pointedly looked at the bruises strewed over both of their bodies and then at a red-bottomed Sherlock, “ _Really_?”

John blushed almost instantaneously and huffed with an uneasy noise in the back of his throat, “Yeah, well, that’s not much really. – There was obviously no penetration. No condoms or…lube or…anything like that. And there doesn’t seem to be any sign of… emissions, so...”

“What?”

“What, what? Emission? I just mean there’s no evidence of…semen anywhere. Not on the sheets, or the bed, or…us,” John coughed, paying immense attention to the tube of sudocrem suddenly. “It seems like we just…messed about and then fell asleep…”

Greg inclined his head slowly, “Right. Course. – God, if this had happened in my youth, I might be more inclined to just shrug it off. People experiment, you know? But…but this is…I’m _way_ too old for this…”

John smiled forcefully in mutual agreement and looked back into Greg’s eyes. The side of his face caught the sunlight, outlining the faint fuzz of stubble and revealing the vast shades of blond in his hair and the blue to his eyes, and Greg swallowed thickly at the swift whirl of eagerness that exploded in his gut. John had always been attractive. He had a sort of rugged handsomeness about him, exuding a strong and confident aura, and had a boyish, impish, sort of glint to his eyes, more so when he was around Sherlock.

Greg wondered when his neutral knowledge of John’s good looks had turned into something more, and wished he could blame it on some sort of drunken stupor as he leaned toward John faintly, but the hangover headache still throbbed in his temples. He was basically sober. Sober and still yearning.

“Are you going to be okay?” Greg asked him in a breathy tone, tipping his head toward the bedroom and clearing his throat. “I can get away with not seeing him for long periods of time. Which will make…all of this, a _little_ less uncomfortable, but you, well, you do have to live with the man. – This won’t affect anything, will it? Between me and you, or…him and you or anything?”

John licked his lips nervously, “I…hope not.”

Greg dropped his gaze to John’s mouth and was leaning even further forward at the sight, “You, uh, you don’t actually blame me for this do you?”

“…No,” John whispered, tilting his head very slightly with a furrowing brow, “we were drunk and…it was all a big, _big_ mistake. We’d never do anything like that sober…right? It was a one-time thing. A weird and unbelievable thing – I’m not gay and you’re not gay, and…well, I don’t know what the hell Sherlock is, but I’m _positive_ he wouldn’t have done anything like this in a hundred years—I really have no idea why or how this came about…it’s a little maddening.”

“Yeah,” Greg breathed huskily, and reached over with his free hand to trail his fingertips up the side of John’s face. It was as if he was watching himself from far away, and he could do nothing to stop the flare of want and the urge to touch. John turned his head into Greg’s fingers briefly with a soft frown and Greg was hit with déjà vu, sure he’d seen John do the same motion before, but the frown had been different, less confused and more pleasured.

“What?” John continued in a whisper, locking eyes with Greg again and moving his face away. “What are you…?”

Swallowing with realisation, Greg dropped his hand, “So…so nothing like this has happened to you?”

“ _No_. No of course not,” John answered, still frowning, a peppering of colour blooming over his cheeks.

“Sorry. Just…you were in the army,” Greg tried to joke, forcing a grin that slid off his face just as quickly. “Sorry…”

“You?”

“…What me?”

John’s mouth quirked, “Has something like this happened to _you_?”

“No. I told you, I’m not into blokes,” Greg said, swallowing again, and then once more when John took a cautious and shy step closer, looking just as shocked at his movement as Greg was. “I’m, you know, fine with all that. Nothing wrong with it. At all. It’s the way some people are wired, you know? Born like that and…and such.”

John nodded, “Yeah. Right. _Exactly_. It’s all…fine.”

“Completely fine.”

“Absolutely,” John breathed with a ragged and husky tone. He stared at Greg and then licked his lips again, looked away, and tilted his head with lowered eyelids when Greg swayed forward with an instinctive and eager parting of his own lips.

Sherlock unexpectedly rushed from the bedroom and stumbled into them as he clambered for the washbasin, promptly throwing up with a loud retching and a flushed face, “Good God,” Sherlock muttered, spitting and then glaring up at them both, standing nude and gripping the basin, a line of saliva dangling from his bottom lip. He paused, looked between them with a cocked head, and then puffed out a disbelieving breath and frowned “Were you two making eyes at each other?—”

“No,” John replied shortly, talking over Sherlock and then grimacing as he tried to keep his eyes both from the sick and Sherlock’s bare body. “Go back… in there.”

“You were discussing something,” Sherlock mumbled, squinting shrewdly at Greg. “I heard you – Obviously it’s to do with this situation—What is it? Panicking about the state of your masculinity and heterosexuality, are we? Wondering what this all ‘ _means_?’ Well please don’t. I feel sick enough as it is.”

Greg snorted and nudged John’s bare bicep, “You think the reason you can’t find semen is because he had it all? Seems the type to swallow, don’t you think? Would explain the amount of times he’s been sick too. Can’t be healthy. A stomach full of booze and come,” he teased, trailing off into embarrassed silence when John stared at him with wide eyes. “It…uh, I was joking. That’s…no, that’s disgusting. Sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just joking.”

“Can’t find semen?” Sherlock repeated and turned his focus on John, motioning behind him faintly. “Are you blind?”

“What?” John blinked, paling when his eyes jumped from the basin, to Sherlock’s bruise scattered pelvis.

Sherlock pursed his mouth in annoyance and turned to address them properly, the sun catching the very faint auburn colour in his curls and bathing his toned hip, “There’s semen on the headboard, the pillows, the floor, and I’m pretty sure there’s some on my shirt – Thankfully it’s not a shirt I overly like…”

“Oh,” John muttered a little distantly.

“Yes, ‘oh,’” Sherlock sighed and snatched the tea towel bundled with melting ice cubes from Greg’s hand, pushing it against his backside with a hitching gasp.

John grabbed at him with a tut, “Be _careful_! – Go back in there. Let me do it.”

“You’ve done quite enough, I’d say,” Sherlock told him with mock irritability, his eyes drifting to where John’s fingers were curled around his shoulder. He looked back up at John, peering through the curls of his mussed fringe, and then cocked his head and redirected his dark gaze to Greg. “Well, Lestrade did a bit more than you did, to be fair.”

“ _What_? – You can’t be sure of that,” Greg argued, hating the fact that he had to fight to keep his eyes above Sherlock’s waist. “Wait. Are you saying you remember what happened then?”

“No,” Sherlock said with a sardonic grin, “but I saw your expression when you saw my—”

Greg made a high-pitched choking sound in his throat, exchanging glances with John, looking for backup, “That doesn’t mean anything! I was in shock at the…the _look_ of it!”

Scoffing, Sherlock adjusted the ice with a quivering exhalation, “I couldn’t have bitten and bruised my own arse, so obviously one of you – essentially both of you – is responsible. Not that it matters. I evidently gave as good as I got,” Sherlock mentioned and gestured pointedly at some of the bruises on Greg’s torso and neck, his mouth quirking up at one side. John looked at the bruises as well, his eyes dark and his hand still on Sherlock’s shoulder. It leisurely shifted to curl automatically about the crook of Sherlock’s marked throat, thumbing the closest bruise, and Greg lost his train of thought for a second.

“I liked it better when you were spewing your guts up,” Greg muttered, and then stepped forward to physically turn Sherlock around, jostling John back as he marched Sherlock back into the bedroom and stubbornly refused to admire the flexing of his back and backside. “Let’s get this over and done with so you can put on some bloody _clothes_ and _leave_.”

Sherlock hunched over the basin moodily as Greg manhandled him onto his front across the mattress, “Yes, because you’ve _never_ seen me naked before,” he said sarcastically.

“I haven’t!”

“Yes you have,” Sherlock glowered.

Greg snatched the ice away from him and shoved them at John, wetting John’s vest when the towel unravelled, “No I _haven’t_ , Sherlock – I can’t remember anything from last night, so really, for me, this _is_ the first time that I’ve seen you stark bollock naked!—And it’ll be the last too, by the way.”

“Strip search,” Sherlock told him with an expressive and haughty expression, twisting to see Greg better and then kicking out grumpily when John rolled a bare ice cube along Sherlock’s pinked skin. “ _Christ_! John, a little warning would have been nice! – And be careful. I’d rather not swap actual bites for frostbite, thank you _very_ much.”

“What does a strip search have to do with anything?” Greg exclaimed, animatedly throwing his arms around and pacing near the bed. He still felt hyped up with arousal, his cooled crotch tingling with renewed interest as he intuitively watched a droplet of water disappear between Sherlock’s thighs. The man’s legs were too perfect.

Sherlock pointed at him gracelessly, “May 3rd 2009, 8:15pm. You did another one of your silly little drug busts, but you weren’t content with just turning my living quarters upside down. _Oh no_! No, you asked and then damn well _demanded_ that I be strip searched!”

“Ah, now, you know why I did that, Sherlock,” Greg told him sternly, swatting at Sherlock’s index finger. “And, if you recall, I didn’t bloody stand around to watch! I had another officer do it. I turned my back.”

“Did not.”

“Yes, I did!”

Sherlock leaned up onto the heels of his hands a little in disagreement, “No, you did _not_. You were standing sideways, adjacent to me, making it look like you weren’t looking, but you were, Lestrade. You looked, and what’s more, you looked right at my penis. I _saw_ you.”

“Oi! _Enough_ ,” John protested as he slowly and cautiously rubbed ice over Sherlock’s buttocks, glancing between Greg and Sherlock with badly hidden amusement. “Let’s just…drop it now. We’ve all seen each other. We all made a…horridly bad mistake whilst smashed out of our faces. Let’s just…try and move on, okay? – _Sherlock_ , keep still please.”

“Why on _earth_ would I look at your penis?” Greg disputed with an uncontrollable burst of laughter.

“The same reason you’d bite my bloody arse!”

John snorted with a giggle and quickly covered his mouth, shaking his head at Greg’s outraged expression, “Sorry. Sorry. It’s not funny. – Let’s just stop, okay? Sherlock? Stop,” he said, shoving Sherlock’s shoulder when he went to retort. “ _No_! Enough. Seriously. Let’s all agree to just… forget about this, yeah? And try and carry on as…normal...”

“Forget about the night we can’t remember? _Brilliant_ , John,” Sherlock said under his breath, hissing when John applied a little too much pressure to his bruised buttocks in retaliation. John flashed a quick mischievous smirk up at Greg that shot hot lust up Greg’s spine, and then dropped an ice cube against the small of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock cried out in sullen protest and Greg grinned, moving a little closer, attracted by the sound, the sight. Sherlock’s back was, obviously, coated with scratches, bruises, stubble rash and bite marks, and Greg clenched both of his hands into fists, fighting the compulsion to touch, and touch hard. All three of them descended into tensed silence as Greg watched John tend to Sherlock’s backside with ice and cold water. There was no real reason for Greg to watch, or for John to tend to Sherlock right then and there, but none of them said a word about it.

Throughout the quiet, awkward treatment of his skin Sherlock’s eyes became lidded, his face still sickly pale, and he turned to duck his head over the basin a few times, tensing but not vomiting. Feeling sorry for him, Greg shifted his weight in quick consideration and then walked around to the opposite side of the bed to ineptly comfort Sherlock, pressing a hand at the nape of his neck and then drifting it through his curls.

The strands were silky smooth and clung to Greg’s fingers, wrapping around his knuckles and tickling his palm. He’d always had a thing for Sherlock’s hair. Had wanted to grip it and ruffle it in amusement, affection and anger many a time. Greg deliberately tightened his grip with a glazed expression, winding one thick curl around his middle finger, and Sherlock inhaled through his nose and lifted his head in reaction, tilting it backwards to peek up at him.

Holding his breath, Greg stroked his other hand up Sherlock’s cheek, tilting his head aside and exposing the jagged line of love bites on his neck, “You all right?” he asked, clearing his throat and looking over at John when his voice came out overly hoarse. John was staring at him with an odd expression, his hands pushing the covered ice cubes to Sherlock’s backside with gentle precision.

“I don’t answer stupid questions,” Sherlock said sourly, one of his hands jostling the basin in answer. The sick smelt strongly of beer and Greg wrinkled his nose, glancing around to swiftly pick up on the many discarded empty cans and bottles littering his bedroom floor.

“Let me go and…get rid of this for you,” Greg told him and pulled the basin away from him, dumping the contents into the toilet and flushing it away. Who knew that Sherlock wasn’t good at holding back his drink? Rerouting to the kitchen, Greg poured Sherlock another glass of water before he returned, putting the empty basin down on the floor beside the bed. “Have a drink.”  
  
“Drinking is what got us into this mess in the first place,” Sherlock criticised, but took the glass and took three long and noisy gulps, pushing the glass to his forehead with a shaky sigh.

Greg frowned in exasperation, “Better?”

“Much,” Sherlock replied and then unexpectedly moaned in appreciation as John uncapped the cream, dotted it over some of the biggest bruises and rubbed it in. Blushing, Sherlock froze and looked up at Greg as Greg stared at the scene in front of him with wide eyes. John had momentarily paused as well, avoiding eye contact with embarrassment, and then he slicked more of his fingers with cream and continued.

“Well,” Greg said to break the uncomfortable anxiety, clearing his throat and patting Sherlock’s head gawkily, “can’t really blame you. Must be nice.”

Sherlock glowered and took another noisy gulp of water, “Shut up.”

“Like a bum massage – Have you ever had one of those?”

“ _Shut up_.”

Greg smirked and ruffled Sherlock’s hair, “They’re really, really good. You wouldn’t believe the amount of stress your arse goes through on a daily basis—”

“I’m almost positive my arse isn’t meant to go through being bitten and sucked on,” Sherlock said sarcastically, leaning into Greg’s touch in a subtle movement that actually wasn’t subtle at all.

John let out a stilted giggle, and then they were all suddenly, self-consciously, laughing together, Greg’s sides hurting as he moved to sit on the bed beside Sherlock, gazing at the mess they’d made of their friendships. He slumped down on his back and covered his face, rubbing his palms into the stubble on his chin and cheeks, his hands smelling of heat, alcohol and mixed musk. They were well and truly fucked.

* * *

Sherlock reached for and then pulled on his stained shirt first before anything else, and moved to stand in the centre of Greg’s room with a semi-erect penis and a cream covered backside, his brow furrowed and his nose wrinkled. He looked both abnormally adorable and extremely attractive, and it made the itch of lingering arousal in Greg’s core increase and spread, turning the throbbing embers into a roaring flame. Why was he even looking?

John coughed loudly when he saw the faint, thick curve of Sherlock’s erection, and walked up to throw Sherlock’s underwear at his chest with a soft glare, pointing implicitly at where they fell, “On. _Now_ \-- Who puts their shirt on first?” John muttered under his breath, catching Greg’s eye.

Greg swallowed and glanced away, rocking on his heels with his hands fisted in his jeans. The motion pushed them low on his hips, exposing the line of his pelvis and Sherlock paused to look over fleetingly as he bent for his pants, his lips parted and glistening in the morning sun. He looked wanton and sinful, and he smiled very faintly as he straightened, fumbling his way into his underwear. What was happening? Was this good? Bad? It seemed like Sherlock was languidly taking his time dressing, unbalanced and still nauseous, and the sight of him, the looks he gave, Greg wasn’t sure if he should indulge in them or not.

John, on the other hand, was efficient and quick in dressing, and was fully dressed in record time, though his clothes were rumpled and stained with what Greg hoped to be beer, and his hair was chaotic and tousled, sticking up at the front and sides. He looked at Greg, standing oddly close to Sherlock, and folded his hands behind his back, his shoulders and spine straight, and a peculiar expression settling over his face, making his eyes gleam. What did this all mean for heaven’s sake?

Both Sherlock and John were staring at him now, looking different and impacting, fixed in the gush of sunlight like avenging angels. They were two sides of the same coin, amazing people connected by some invisible chain, and they were focusing all their attentions on Greg like they yearned for him. Simultaneously.

With a hitching breath, Greg turned away and left the room without hesitation, “I’ll, uh, be out there,” he muttered as he went. Everything was working against Greg. Everything was altered and startling. He couldn’t remember anything but he still craved like he must have craved the night before, full of drink and blinded by the addictive wake of Sherlock and John’s dynamic, only this time he was sober. Well, sort of sober. Slightly sober.

“I hope this won’t be a recurring nuisance, Lestrade,” Sherlock called after him. “You running off like a startled mouse!”

John followed it up with a loud and frustrated sigh, “Sherlock. Shut up and put your knob away.”

Greg smirked, got himself a full glass of cold water, and waited uneasily until Sherlock and John re-emerged from the bedroom. Sherlock was walking weirdly with a crease between his brows and one hand on his backside, but he blanked his face when he saw Greg looking and lifted his chin. John was carrying the empty washbasin, which had been cleaned out thoroughly for which Greg was grateful, and he placed it on Greg’s kitchen table as he went by, tapping the rim of it with an uneasy flutter of his fingertips.

A part of Greg didn’t want them to go, in fact, that part of Greg was a very big part. If he was honest with himself, he wanted them to stay a great deal. Partly because they needed to somehow sort through whatever they had done and perhaps skim over what he was feeling, and if they in turn felt the same way, and what that meant if they did. John smiled politely at Greg and put an unneeded and lingering hand to Sherlock’s lower back, steering him onwards with a gentle pressure that Sherlock’s back curved around lithely. Gorgeous. Jesus Christ this was a mess.

“So,” Greg started, scratching the back of his neck nervously and leading them both to his front door with an uncooperative sweep of his arm, “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you both…another time then? – For, you know, crime stuff. Murders mostly. Or perhaps a good ‘ol kidnapping, eh?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” John replied, looking just as anxious and uncomfortable as Greg felt.

“For crying out loud,” Sherlock complained under his breath, eyes flitting between them both in provocation. “You’re _both_ awkward. I get it. I think the whole street gets it. No, the whole of England gets it.”

“Oh, shut it! – There isn’t really a set routine or rule or a… _thing_ to do or say when something like this happens,” Greg told him grumpily and crossed his arms, only remembering he was still topless when Sherlock very slowly blinked at the bunching of his biceps. “Especially when it’s something like…well, like _this_. – See, this just shows how _naïve_ you really are. Stuff like this is _always_ awkward, Sherlock, but it’s even _more_ awkward when it’s with people you know, with _friends_.”

Sherlock glowered, but it was weak and only for show, “If either one of you stumbles over your words or stutters and stammers in uneasiness just once more, I swear…”

“We can’t help the way we respond to these things, Sherlock, “ John protested, his hand still on Sherlock’s back as if it were anchored there. His fingers were spread in a greedy manner and the sight of them made Greg’s growing erection twitch in his underwear.

Greg reached out unconsciously and covered John’s hand with his own, pressing down in the pretence of shoving Sherlock toward the door, “Out,” he said before sliding his hand up Sherlock’s spine to curl his palm around Sherlock’s nape, adding the slightest bit of force when Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered. “I’ve had enough of you.”

“Charming.” Sherlock paused just before he reached for the door handle, and gave Greg an odd sideways glance. “Your apartment is a mess,” he sniffed haughtily, still pale in the face as he pressed his pallid lips together and looked at Greg properly. “I do hope it’s a little more tidy the next time we…stop over.”

“What?” Greg asked quietly, in shock at the statement, and turned to John for assistance, finding him frowning but looking at the floor. “I…why would you come back over here? Don’t come back here, Sherlock. _Ever_. Don’t start turning up whenever you like now that you know where I live – Though I’m sure you’ve always known.”

“Then again, you’re welcome at the flat,” Sherlock said as if Greg had never spoken, flashing him a quick smile and a wink, “Obviously.”

“Fuck off,” Greg snorted with a unwinding smile, touching Sherlock’s shoulder before he could stop himself, enjoying the warmth leaking through the fabric of his jacket.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels me! 
> 
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> Seriously, feedback and comments help a lot. I appreciate your time and your words!


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